I.

MADAM SPECKBOMowned a house which was called “Noah’s Ark.” Down in the bright comfortable rooms on the side toward the sun, she lived herself; above lived Miss Falbe with her brother; and up in the garret—there were only two stories—in attic rooms, under the stairs and back of the chimney-pots lived a number of unclean animals which went under the common title, “the gang.”

Madam Speckbom was not only a wise woman; she was literally a klog-kone or quack as well; for she was a doctor or, as the regular doctor called her, a quack.

But that did not trouble Madam greatly; she had her good, sure practice, and her skill brought her money and professional triumphs as well.

That part of the community which called Madam Speckbomwas, of course, not the finest, but beyond comparison the most numerous. It might be that she had five or six patients lying under treatment in little nooks and closets of which there was an incredible number in the old house; and especially of an evening after working-hours, her time was all taken up with making her calls or receiving patients of all kinds.

And then when some one came among them, who had been under the treatment of the regular practitioner—district-physician Bentzen—then there was a sparkle in Madam Speckbom’s little brown eyes, and she tossed the three gray curls which hung from a comb over each ear, while she said: “When you come from so learned a gentleman, surely you can’t be helped by a toothless old woman.”

Then there was a course of maneuvering necessary before she sympathized with the patient; but once she had taken him under treatment, she showed a very especial concern for this one whom the regular doctor “had given up.”

And among the town’s people—even up among the higher classes—there were spread numberless accounts of Madam’s wonderful cures; and one had only to mention her name before Dr. Bentzen, and the old gentleman would jump up, swear and curse—grow fiery red about the head, seize his hat and make off.

The fact was, that when Dr. Bentzen came to common people, he never condescended to give any explanation—he despised their ignorance too deeply for that. He only said:

“You are to do this or that, and there is the medicine.”

But now, when the medicine did not help at once—and that can happen with the best of medicine—then the people grew tired of the high-priced druggist, and the harsh doctor who only turned on the floor, gave an order, and went away.

And then Madam Speckbom would come.

She would sit down and explain methodically what it was that ailed the patient—perhaps it might be some kind of fever, for example, “earth-fever,” or “water-fever,” or say, “body-fever,” or “a drop of blood which had stuck fast,” or some such thing.

You see, that was something one could understand; and when they got medicine from the Madam, it was something that both smelled and tasted strong, so they could see that it was no “stuff and nonsense.”

And if it did not do good every time, everybody understood one thing; that even Madam Speckbom did not have dominion over life and death; yet what could be done, was done, and that was always better than to be torn to pieces by the doctor’s suspicious learning, as so many had been. And besides, Madam was much—very much cheaper.

To aid her in her practice, she had a young girl, called Loppen. Madam had brought her home with her, after she had cured her of a bad disease of the eyes.

Loppen had no parents; her name was Elsie.

A surname I do not think she ever had. For she was in fact a daughter of one of the town’s finest gentlemen—whose name could not stand on the church records in that capacity.

In a Foundling’s Home, Loppen grew up after her mother—a servant girl—was dead. And there it was, too, that she had received her nickname [which means “a flea”].

It came from a dark brown cloak which she had received at a Christmas distribution. It was at first so long and big that when the child hopped about in it, she looked so much like a flea that some one was at last witty enough to give her the name.

And this cloak was of such indestructible material that it followed her through her childhood—first as a cloak, then as a jacket, next as a belt, and at last as a hat with a rose-red band.

She was yet in this hat, with a rose-red band, when she took the disease of the eyes. Bentzen, as the physician of the institution, trifled with her a good half year until she lay like a little beast in a dark corner, and screamed whenever they turned her to the light.

But then Miss Falbe secretly placed her under Madam Speckbom’s treatment, and, be it as it may, the child recovered.

Dr. Bentzen was exultant; at last it was his fortune to win the battle with that stiffnecked inflammation.

Then Madam Speckbom could be still no longer, and there was a great scandal. Miss Falbe had to step out of the institution’s directorate where she had perhaps been secretly disliked already; Dr. Bentzen was in a rage, and little Elsie, herself, had to suffer on account of her new bright eyes.

But Madam Speckbom took the child home with her then—partly because she was well-to-do and good-hearted, partly because Elsie’s bright eyes were a testimony for her of her skill as an oculist; and finally, she used the child to tease Dr. Bentzen with.

He could never go by the Ark—and his road lay by it many times a day—but Madam Speckbom would seize the child, set her up in the window, and thump her on the neck, so she would bow to the doctor. And when she could get him to look in with his malicious grin, Madam Speckbom would shake her six curls in triumph and give Loppen a piece of candy.

As she grew up, Elsie became a fine, slender girl—blonde and a little pale, but still healthy.

She was sprightly and nimble, and had a way of her own of keeping herself and everything about her neat and orderly. But when Madam Speckbom began to try to have her wash, scour, sew, and “be of use,” Loppen showed herself utterly incapable. She “felt bad” here and there, and all Madam’s good counsel and bitter scoldings were without result.

Madam Speckbom was, as I have said, a wise woman too. She very well understood that disease which came exactly on scrubbing days, and always disappeared, as if by magic Sunday morning. But when she saw that the ailment in this case came up in an incurable form, she confined herself to shaking her curls and mumbling something about “that accursed, aristocratic blood.”

But the sick were fond of Loppen, although indeed she was not a faithful or sacrificing nurse. But if she only went through the room or thrust her head in at the door, it was as if their pains and weariness were lightened; and Madam Speckbom fully appreciated what a share of her cures she owed to Loppen’s merry laughter.

For it was laughter unlike all other laughter that was ever heard in Noah’s Ark. It could steal up the stairs and down into the cellar, through the keyhole to the sick, and right into men’s hearts, so that some became very tender andothers had to laugh with her. But every one of them would give whatever you will, to hear Loppen laugh.

And she laughed free at everything and nothing. She had red lips and white sound teeth; but her eyes shone over all—they were Madam Speckbom’s pride, for the learned doctor had quite “given them up.”

Madam Speckbom’s Ark was not so well built as Noah’s. It was—to speak plainly—an old tumble-down of a house, which yet stood, because it was built together with a newer and stronger one. But, since like all old folks, it could not bear to accept the support of youth, it continually threw itself more to one side, to protest against the union; and so it came to hang menacingly out over the steep bank, which led down on the east to the harbor and wharves.

It was a corner-building, painted white toward the street, and red on the rear side. All sorts of curves, crooked lines, wry doors, outbuildings and additions seemed to have sent representatives to this Ark; and, as it stood there, in all its impossibility, it was just as great a puzzle for modern architecture as Noah’s.

But it must have been strong, notwithstanding; or else “the gang” would certainly have tumbled down into the cellar long ago—such a life as they often led there. It was a a great nuisance to the Falbes, especially at night, whenthere was trouble up in “the gang.” In the daytime, sister and brother both were out. She had a girl’s school in the finer part of town and he was, at any rate, not at the Ark.

They belonged to an old, official family; but there had been something wrong about their father. Rumor said that he had hung or shot himself, on account of an embezzlement; but it was several years ago, and in quite another part of the country; so no one knew anything certain about it.

Sure it is that the children became half-foreign in the town and lived alone and frugally. Miss Falbe’s lady-school was in high repute; although she herself was by no means a favorite. She was too imperious and odd for that.

Miss Falbe may have been thirty-five years old; her brother was two or three years younger. She was a blonde, with a big, humped nose and earnest eyes. But at certain times she could smile so friendly that people were quite astonished when they saw it the first time.

Christian Falbe resembled his sister; but he was a handsome man. The big, family nose became him better.

Already, by his thirtieth year, a rosy cloud had gathered about that same nose; for Christian Falbe drank a great deal.

If he had lived in a large city, he would probably have become a quite moderate saloon visitor. But in a little town, where one cannot visit cafes, one steals in at the back door and then learns to drink.

Naturally, all the town knew this about Falbe; but his sister imagined that she kept it hidden from everybody. For that was her constant thought and endless struggle from morning to evening, and oftentimes from evening to morning. She had given up reforming him; she was tired of all his good promises and luckless trials. Now it only remained to support him in some way and so to hide it. They knew their father’s fate; but with her, the family pride had collected itself into energy; with him, on the contrary, in futile discontent and bitterness.

He was bright and of good parts; when he had his better periods, he gave private instructions in languages. But then drink would overcome him again, and he would disappear for whole weeks at a time and turn back to the Ark in the most miserable condition.

The sister earned enough for them both. She put money in his purse when he was asleep; she smiled on him when he came home drunk in the evening; she prepared food—the best food she could get, for him. He ate and drank and never thanked her.

But that was Miss Falbe’s only weakness; she said so to herself at times, when she was alone. Else was she firm, plucky, confident and tirelessly industrious.

In the Ark they stood more in awe of her than of MadamSpeckbom herself; and even the boldest of “the gang” walked on tip-toe when they passed Miss Falbe’s landing.

It was a hard, old, creaking stairway, which took its own good time with many stops; but toward the top, it became as steep as a ladder. It was one of Loppen’s early pastimes to glide down the bannisters, from the top to the bottom, with a little hop at every landing—that is, when Miss Falbe was at her school.

That lady was always friendly to Loppen, in her somewhat austere way. In the evening, when Madam Speckbom was engaged with her practice, Elsie would sit up in the Falbes’ room and read or look at pictures, while the lady corrected compositions. If Christian came home, his sister would cast a hasty look upon him and, according to the result, Elsie was either sent down or permitted to stay.

Then Christian could set to romping or playing chess with her; and Miss Falbe would look up from her compositions, with her handsome smile, when they laughed heartily at one another.

However, Loppen enjoyed herself much more up in the attic, with “the gang.” There was a peculiar, mysterious dusk spread over all the wonderful corners and cramped recesses up there. Besides, one was never sure who lived there, for the company changed constantly. Sometimesthere were only two or three of the steady tenants; then it would swarm with people in every corner—all men, who slept, played cards, drank, or put their heads together and whispered.

The chief person of the garrets was Puppelena, a large, robust woman, with dark hair, small eyes and an uncommonly thick underlip. She leased all the rooms up there, immediately from Madam Speckbom, which was very convenient for the Madam. But otherwise the relations between the two ladies were not without disturbances. For “the gang” was a great annoyance to the house with music, noise, and the like; besides it placed the Ark in bad repute throughout the whole town.

But, however that might be, Puppelena did not let herself be dislodged. Many times Madam had given her notice, and twice Puppelena went too. But after a short time a compromise was effected and she returned to the Ark—just like the dove with the olive-leaf—as old Schirrmeister expressed himself.

Old Schirrmeister was a besotted German musician who had come there with a traveling orchestra many years before. In the beginning he had done well. He played very well on the violin and was besides able to perform respectably, at least, on almost all possible instruments.

So he obtained pupils in the best houses. But little by little he went out of style; drink got the upper hand; and at last he threw his rags together, with his former servant girl, Lena, whom he was accustomed to call “My Puppe” (or nymph). From that she gained the popular nickname, “Puppelena.”

Now the old artist was reduced to living from copying music and from Puppelena’s generosity. Under the sloping roof stood his old pianoforte, which served as a table for note-copying, and for eating and drinking; and farthest in by the wall stood the violin case, hidden, dusty, and forgotten.

When Elsie was alone with old Schirrmeister, she could get him to play; but that was not often. For the old musician was so far gone, that it pained him to hear music. So he had to be a little drunk; but then he could play, so it sighed and sobbed in the old piano and Loppen sat breathless on the edge of the bed and sobbed too.

As long as he had something to drink, he would keep on playing while he partly sang, partly told her what it was that he was playing. And in this way he came to paint his youth full of hope and music and enthusiasm; how he had played “Commers mitt den Gottinger studenten,” and how the great Spohr had once laid his hand upon his head and said: “He will go high in it.”

And old Schirrmeister would toss off his light yellow wig, that she might see the head on which the great master’s hand had rested.

“Yes—yes, he has gone high in it, the old hog!” he would say to himself, and look about in his gabled-room, take a swallow and play on.

And Loppen heard and saw all sorts of wonderful things. Beaming pictures spread out before her; elegant ladies and gentlemen, lights, music, roses, carriages, and glossy horses, brides in white satin—and roses again, whose fragrance she could fairly smell.

One summer evening, the dormer-window stood open and the light of the sun, which was setting, fell in crimson over the little musician who sat and played for Elsie with his bottle by his side.

His eyes were moist from drink and emotion, while tenderly and in the cautious way of old age, he performed an adagio from Mozart’s Sonatas. That was an especial favor for Elsie; for usually he was not to be induced to play the old classics, when they asked it of him.

But he had noticed that Elsie could follow him. And when he saw how he could sway her to his music, so that the bright eyes now stood full of tears, now opened as if before a revelation, then the old wreck sighed: “She will go high in it, too.”

Out in the garret a wonderful clatter was heard, and some one took hold of the door.

“Tra-tra-tra! the drummer is there!” shouted Schirrmeister, and struck up a gay march.

The door opened and in came a drum, strapped to a long, spare fellow in a blue uniform coat with long skirts. Next came a big, fat man with a flute under his arm.

One needed only to see his underlip to know at once that he was Puppelena’s brother. But whether the flute was to blame or it lay in his temperament, his lip was much thicker, and hung twice as far down.

This person had in his day been steward (Okonomen) in the prison but had been discharged. And now he lived at his sister’s “pension” as he said. Among “the gang” he went under the sobriquet, Olkonomen (from Ol or ale); and so far as one could discover, he did not do a single, blessed thing but drink, play the flute, and run errands for his sister.

There was something mysterious, by the way, about these errands, which were always undertaken after dark. Olkonomen’s long, double-breasted coat was singularly stuffed when he went out; but when, comparatively thin, he returned, his sister threw herself upon him, like a hawk, before any one else got a hand on him; for it was the common opinion in “the gang” that after such expeditions, he brought home money.

Loppen knew both Olkonomen and Jorgen Tambur well; she rose at once and made room for them as well as she could.

Jorgen Tambur had brought with him two bottles of ale, and a quart of brandy for the concert. Olkonomen winked mysteriously and said he had sent a message; something he always said. Nobody knew what kind of a message it was or where it was sent; but they all knew perfectly well that it would never be answered.

Meanwhile, old Schirrmeister cast a deprecating look at the drinkables and announced that he would not play that day.

“Orders from Puppelena,” said Jorgen Tambur and at that moment she herself thrust her head in at the door and said in an uncommonly kind tone: “Well? You are not playing? Perhaps it might be a little something to drink?”

“No—no—does the blessed sun shine to-day?” shouted old Schirrmeister and Olkonomen nodded and wiped the keys of his instrument with a red handkerchief, while Jorgen Tambur thoughtfully put the brandy into his breast pocket, and the two bottles of ale deep down in the long skirts of his coat; when Puppelena was going to treat, he could save his for another time.

The concert opened with a Rondo Grazioso by Fürstenau. Olkonomen had once really been able to play Fürstenau; butwith the years, a veil of spit, so to speak, had laid itself over his playing, and his fingers were so thick and stiff that he held them out straight when he played.

Jorgen Tambur performed his part with taste and discretion, when with subdued ruffs he covered up where Olkonomen’s trills and runs spent themselves in splutter and wind. But old Schirrmeister accompanied from his own head.

He must have been pretty far gone to take part in these trios; and at times, in his pain and shame, he played so wild an accompaniment, that surely poor Fürstenau would hardly have recognized his peaceful Rondo Grazioso.

When they were well under way, Puppelena peeped in at the door, and a moment after, two young fellows came in; they looked like day laborers or the like. One was one-eyed, and Loppen knew that he was a tinker; on the contrary, the other was a strange fellow who at once set to work making court to her. Elsie preferred to sit in peace and listen to the music which she found exquisite; but aside from that, she was so used to having the men up there pinch her and be familiar, that she did not trouble herself farther about it.

Puppelena herself came in now, as well; and locked the door after her; and at the same time—almost as if he came out of her skirts—one person more appeared; so it was crowded enough in the little room.

He was a small, sallow man. Loppen had seen him there once a short time before, and she had an impression that he was an important personage.

As he sat down on a bench close by the hostess, his little sea-blue eyes ran about into every corner, over all the people, up to the dormer-window, and ended over by the door where the bolt was caught and the key turned.

His face was thin and pale as if he had lived long in the dark; his hair was light red, almost white, and clipped close, with great ridges about the temples. He had whiter hands than the others; but they were seldom to be seen, for he had a habit of sitting on them.

Loppen had to look across at him every minute; he had such a wonderful face; but the most wonderful of all was, that he had a new one every time she looked over at him. And when he noted her surprise, he set to making grimaces, and at last made so hideous a face that Loppen gave a little scream and started up.

But then he laughed silently, without a sound, and showed his yellow teeth. Then a whispered conversation began between him and Puppelena; different things which Loppen could not see went from hand to hand under the table. The tinker and the other young fellow were drawn into this private conversation. But every time the music made a halt,Puppelena shouted to them encouragingly and the artists recovered themselves in a hurry and played on.

But in the midst of an excellent allegro spirituoso, when Olkonomen’s flute wandered off in trills and runs, so it was a pleasure to listen, there was a knock at the door.

The man of the many faces vanished in a trice under Puppelena’s chair; and Elsie saw with astonishment that her cavalier and the tinker had all at once turned to playing cards—with cards which must have fallen down from the roof. Yes, they were already in a hot dispute about a jack of clubs.

“But Jorgen—how you drum!” cried Schirrmeister, offended; for, after drinking, Jorgen Tambur became more fiery; he remembered the proud time when he drummed for the people’s assembly or beat the alarm in the streets when there was a fire.

“Hush!” commanded Puppelena when there was a second knock. The trio became silent.

“Who knocks?” asks the hostess in an insolent tone.

A voice answered from without.

“Open it,” said Puppelena, reassured. “It is only Miss Falbe.”

The tinker drew the bolt, turned the key and opened the door.

Miss Falbe remained standing on the threshold and exchangeda look with Puppelena, which was not very friendly, to say the least. Then she said quietly, and without heeding the others: “Come, Elsie; you must not stay here.”

Elsie arose, shame-faced, and went with her. There was no one in “the gang” who dared grumble. When they came to Miss Falbe’s door she took Loppen about the waist and said:

“Dear Elsie, promise me that you will never go up there again. You are now a grown girl; you must understand that it will not do for you to be with bad men.”

Elsie grew red as blood and promised, with tears, that she would never go up to “the gang” again. And when she was by herself, down in her own little bed-room, she repeated her promise as she undressed herself.

Miss Falbe was right; they were indeed bad men—those up in the attic. It was better to attend Madam Speckbom’s patients, or sit with Miss Falbe and read of an evening.

But before she went to bed she had to look after her roses in the window, for Elsie loved roses.

She took care of all Madam Speckbom’s flowers, and Madam had flowers in all her windows. But Elsie took the best care of the roses; and when they were about to bloom, she got permission to keep them in her own room, for the morning sun shone there.

There were three or four half blossomed out, and she inhaled the delicate, fresh fragrance while she leaned over them. And with that fragrance from her roses, came visions of all sorts of wonderful things; elegant ladies and gentlemen, lights, music, carriages and glossy horses, and music again, which she heard trembling far in the distance.

And when she crept into bed she did not think of Madam Speckbom’s patients or of Miss Falbe’s quiet room; but she slept in the midst of roses and music and dreams of white satin with swan’s-down about the shoulders. She was seventeen years old.

Life in the Ark went its broken way with a kind of regularity. Madam Speckbom waged her silent war with Dr. Bentzen; Miss Falbe toiled on with her school and with her brother; and “the gang” led their mysterious life above.

For a long time Elsie kept from going to the attic until one day she heard old Schirrmeister playing. She had such a longing to see if he was alone; there could be no harm in that.

He was not alone; but when she was once there, she staid there anyhow. And little by little, all became as before; except that now she did everything to keep her visits a secret from Miss Falbe.

Such was Madam Speckbom’s Ark, and in all that, Elsie grew up.

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